Clintasha Collabs
by Klyntaliah
Summary: Clintasha collaborations with weepingangelofnewnewyork. May contain Clint!Whump and Natasha!Whump. Will be marked as complete but hopefully added to from time to time.
1. Side Effects

**Title: Side Effects**

 **Description: Clint has some unfortunate side effects to an injury during a mission. Clint!Whump and slight Natasha!Whump.**

 **Rating: K+**

 **Author's Note: I wrote Clint in this one, w.a.o.n.n.y. wrote Natasha. Enjoy!**

* * *

"Look, I don't want to be the one who always says I told you so, but I _did_ mention that hitting that button was probably not the best idea, Clint."

"Come on, gimme a break, Tash," Clint returns. His eyes skim the shiny metal interior of the elevator, searching for a means of escape. "How was I supposed to know that 'terminate connection' means 'the elevator cable breaks and we hurtle down in a metal cage like some kind of sick amusement park ride'?" He frowns and scratches his head. "Why is there even a button that does that?"

Natasha is squeezing the handrail so tightly that her knuckles are turning an unhealthy shade of white. "So, I may have just realized that I have a fear of falling. And small spaces. And let's not forget to mention the fact that this is HYDRA's _Fridge_ , which has one hundred floors full of psychopaths and alien weapons, and that the only way to get out is through that door at the top of the building!" Natasha is shouting now, and her whole body is shaking. "I mean, I know we're undercover and so I can understand how maybe you could have gotten a little freaked out when that alarm went off, but honestly, in what universe would it possibly be a good idea to hit a button labeled 'terminate connection'?" She scowls at Clint.

"Gosh, Nat, I'm sorry," Clint says, realizing for the first time how freaked out she is. He stumbles towards her across the rattling floor and tentatively places his hands on her shoulders. "I know it was idiotic, I just wasn't thinking."

In response, she grabs his arm with one hand and squeezes her eyes shut, taking a shuddering breath. "It's ok. Just tell me when it's over."

Clint glances at the floor indicator near the ceiling. The glowing numbers are descending rapidly as the elevator box shoots downward, gaining momentum as it goes. "I think we're about to hit ground," he informs her above the rushing wind and screaming alarm. He loops his arm protectively around her, and traps her firmly between his body and the wall. "Brace yourself!"

She wraps her arms around him and buries her face in his shoulder, wishing she'd had a little less to eat that morning.

The sound of the wind intensifies as the numbers switch from double to single digits. Then, the elevator halts with an earsplitting crash, and the whole enclosure shakes. The force of the impact throws the two assassins to the floor, Clint on his back with Natasha landing on top of him.

They lay like this for a few seconds, catching their breath, until Natasha stands shakily. "Are you ok?" she asks, her voice small and slightly tremulous.

Clint groans. His eyes are screwed shut, and he raises a hand to the back of his head. "I'm fine," he grunts finally. "It's just my head…"

Instantly, Natasha is kneeling at his side. Carefully, she takes the sides of his face in her hands and turns his head gently. She runs her fingers through Clint's tousled hair, skimming them lightly over the area where the back of his head had met the floor, and finds an already sizeable bump forming there.

Clint sucks in his breath as her fingers come into contact with the injury, and he pushes her hands away. "It's fine, Tasha. Don't worry about it," he says, pushing himself up into a sitting position.

"You sure?" Natasha asks nervously. "You might have a concussion or something – that was literally a one hundred floor drop."

"I'm sure," Clint says. He shakes his head to clear the haze from his vision, then grips the handrail, hoisting himself to his feet. "We've got to get out of here."

Not entirely assured, Natasha watches him as she hits the button to open the door. Clint seems confused, and he doesn't stop frowning at the floor as he rubs his eyes. Suddenly, she realizes that she's been hitting the button repeatedly, yet nothing is happening. "Clint," she says slowly, "I think we're stuck."

Clint looks up, and steps closer to the doors. He tries pressing the button, but his results are the same as Natasha's. He tries to slip his fingers into the slim crack between the doors, but they're wedged together too tightly. He presses his shoulder against them, trying to shove them apart; but suddenly, the thundering of feet running across the floor sounds outside the elevator. Clint freezes, and he motions Natasha to be silent.  
"What's going on?" a rough voice demands.

"I don't know," a lower voice replies. "I just heard the alarm go off, then I heard a crash. We'd better go upstairs." The footsteps stop outside the door. Clint steps silently back, and both the assassins hold their breath. Then the low voice mutters a curse, and says, "The elevator's out of order. Come on, let's take the stairs." The footsteps fade away as the HYDRA agents retreat.

Natasha lets out the puff of air she's been holding and tries to think. "We could climb the elevator shaft to the second floor and take the stairs back down. At least they're keeping the weapon on this floor. Although, seeing as it's tesseract technology, I don't suppose they'd want to stash it anywhere else." She inspects the buttons again closely. "We could always call the electrician."

Clint scoffs. "Yeah, great idea, Nat," he says sarcastically. He pushes his palms against the thick door, testing its strength. His face falls when he realizes how secure it is, and he sighs. He glances towards Natasha. "Look, I'm sorry," he mutters. "About… all of this." He gestures around their metal prison.

Natasha shrugs it off. "It's not your fault, Clint. Honestly, I'm not mad, I was just really nervous earlier and I shouldn't have snapped. And really, on your bad idea scale ranging from one to take Banner swimming with sharks in a small underwater cage for his birthday, this one isn't that high on the list."

"Well, in my defense, they were allegedly tame sharks," Clint replies archly. "And it wasn't my fault they were hungry, either."

Natasha only rolls her eyes and a smirk tugs at her lips.

Clint shoves his shoulder against the door again. This time, there is a low grating noise as it gives a little. "Hang on, I think I'm getting it," he declares, redoubling his efforts. The grating sounds again as the doors separate slightly, then Clint grips the edges and pries them apart till there's a big enough gap for them to exit through. "Come on," Clint says; then both of them slip through the crack and hurry away from the elevator, just as the alarm finally falls silent.

"One-J," Natasha mutters as they quickly walk the length of the hallway, scanning their eyes over the labeled doors. "Here." She stops in front of the correct door and pulls a thin, plastic card from her pocket. "Got your pass ready?"

Clint reaches for his pocket, then suddenly, his face contorts; and he stumbles into the wall, breathing heavily. His hand darts toward the back of his head.

"Clint?" Natasha says quickly, forcing panic away from her tone. "Clint, are you ok? What's wrong?" she ducks under his arm, pulling it around her shoulders in an attempt to steady him.

He squeezes her shoulder reassuringly and gives her a weak smile. "'M fine. It's just my head. I feel…" His words end in a moan of pain, and he stumbles again, spared collapsing onto the floor only by Natasha supporting him.

"Clint, if something's wrong, we need to pull out," Natasha says, adrenaline spiking. Her partner had been injured in the field before, but that didn't make in any less scary each new time. "We can put the op on hold."

"Hang on, just gimme a sec," he mutters back. He sinks to the floor and sits against the wall, rubbing at his eyes with his knuckles, Natasha looking on anxiously.

Suddenly, the door to the stairwell opens and two HYDRA agents emerge. Their eyes widen as they take in the scene, and Natasha and Clint find themselves at the wrong end of two HYDRA guns. "Hold up," Natasha barks quickly, raising her hands. She's still holding her false HYDRA ID and lifts it above her head for them to see. "Two men just jumped us. They escaped through the elevator shaft though – I think they were heading for the thirtieth floor." Frowns crease the agents' foreheads. One of them curses as they turn and dash back up the stairway. Natasha wonders what's on the thirtieth floor. The alarms go off again right as Natasha starts to press her thumb to Clint's wrist to check his pulse. She looks up worriedly. "How do you feel?" she asks again.

Unexpectedly, Clint wrenches his arm out of her gentle grasp. "I said, hang on," he reiterates, sounding irritated. "Can't you just leave me alone for two seconds?"

Shocked, Natasha backs away quickly. "Take it easy, Clint – I just want to make sure you're ok." She feels a little hurt but decides not to show it. If Clint was snapping at her, she deserved it. She'd probably been too pushy.

"Well, I am. Ok?" Without waiting for an answer, Clint stands up shakily. He sways a bit on his feet, gripping the wall for support, then pulls his false HYDRA ID from his pocket. "Let's finish this mission so we can get outta this hellhole."

Natasha hovers uncertainly by Clint's shoulder as he passes his ID beneath the scanner. The door unlocks and he opens it and steps inside. Natasha scans her ID and follows him.

Inside, the room is white; and completely empty except for a small table in the center of the room. And, sitting on top of the table is their target: a silver and blue assault rifle displayed in an open weapon holder. Clint leads the way to the table and picks up the weapon. He turns it over in his hands, studying it with interest.

"Careful," Natasha murmurs. "That thing is deadly. Let's get out of here."

Clint throws her an uncharacteristic glare before returning the weapon to its container and snapping the lid shut. Then, he picks it up and brushes past Natasha, marching out the door without waiting to see if she's behind him.

Natasha hangs closely behind Clint, her mind racing. By this time, she's reached the fact that Clint isn't acting like himself. He seems more irritable. Then, she realizes what's probably happening to him. She's heard of people having some head trauma and consequently losing control over their emotions. She hesitates, not wanting to make the situation worse, but she has to know if she's right. "Clint," she says, choosing her words cautiously. "You still haven't told me how your head feels and I'm worried about you."

"I _said_ I'm ok," Clint says angrily, brushing her off as they head towards the stairwell.

"No, you're not," Natasha presses, taking his elbow and causing him to halt. "Look me in the eyes and tell me that nothing is wrong with you."

"Oh, just give it a rest!" Clint growls, rounding on her in frustration. "How many times do I have to tell you? I'm perfectly fine! You need to stop getting distracted and focus on the mission," he adds, taking an aggressive step towards her.

"Clint. I'm serious. I'm worried that you have a concussion. Let me take a look at it," she pleads.

"No! I said drop it!" Clint says, his eyes flashing. "It's none of your business, anyway."

"Snap out of it, Clint, if nothing's wrong like you're insisting –"

Suddenly, Clint's strong hands are digging into her arms, and he's shoving her up against the wall. "I said, shut up," he hisses, his face twisted into an ugly scowl. _"I_ call the shots on this mission, not you! It's your job to do what I tell you to and stay out of my way!" He yells the last part in her face, and shakes her so hard her head hits the wall.

Natasha is too terrified and surprised to try to pull herself out of his grasp. So she stands there, trying to calm her heartrate while Clint's vicelike grip continues to tighten. "Okay, okay," she gasps. "I'm sorry, Clint. Please let go of me; it hurts. I didn't mean to be pushy."

Clint's scowl deepens, and he abruptly strengthens his hold on her arms, almost crushing them. He slams her against the wall one last time before finally releasing her and stalking through the door that leads to the stairwell.

Natasha sags against the wall, trying to take deep, even breaths. She's never seen Clint like this, and it scares her. Her head is throbbing from cracking against the wall, and her arms are almost numb where his hands had been. After a minute, she realizes that he's not going to wait for her if she doesn't catch up with him, so she steels herself and stumbles away from the wall to rejoin him.

The task of climbing up a hundred-story staircase seems daunting, but Clint has wasted no time in starting up. Natasha guardedly falls into place behind him, and for a while, the only sounds are the tapping of their feet on the steps, their labored breathing, and distant shouts and running shoes from the top levels. Several minutes pass, and both the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents begin to grow weary, but they keep soldiering on. Gradually, Clint's breathing begins to grow raspy. He looks pale and sweaty, and he relies heavily on the stair rail for support. But he keeps pressing on, still managing to make good time until he stumbles and falls to his knees somewhere near the forty-fifth floor.

Unsure of what to do, as she doesn't know how Clint will respond if she tries to help him again, Natasha stands back anxiously as Clint struggles to stand.

But when he finally succeeds in standing, he sways unsteadily; then his hold on the railing loosens and he collapses, tumbling down several steps to the nearest landing.

Her heart in her throat, Natasha rushes down the steps to Clint's side. He's unconscious; his face is eerily pale and his breathing is heavy and labored. Natasha takes his hand and tries to say his name, but her voice refuses to comply. She clears her throat and tries again. "Clint. Can you hear me? You've got to wake up, Clint!" She glances nervously behind her, listening to the voices of the HYDRA agents as they search the levels of the building. "Come on, Clint," she urges, chafing his wrists and smacking his face a couple times.

Clint mumbles something unintelligible, and his brow creases. Then his eyelids flutter open. As soon as he sees Natasha, his eyes widen. He half-sits up and grips her urgently by the elbows. "Are you ok?" is the first thing out of his mouth.

Natasha frowns, confused and more than a little worried. "I'm fine, but the more relevant question would be, are _you_ ok?"

"Yeah, I'm alright," Clint says. "My head hurts a little, but that's all." He sits up and surveys their surroundings. A frown of puzzlement claims his face. "Hang on a second. I don't think we're in the elevator anymore."

Natasha freezes. This could not be good. "No, we're not," she answers cautiously. "Is… is that the last thing you remember?"

"Yeah, I just pressed that button, and the elevator fell." Clint's eyes widen as he grasps the implications of her question. "Oh, no. Please tell me I didn't do anything stupid, Tasha," he says half-jokingly.

"You didn't," Natasha says hastily. Suddenly, she realizes that he's still holding onto her arms, and she pulls her elbows quickly from his grasp. "We have the weapon, though," she adds, gesturing towards it. She rises and picks up the case, waiting for him to act.

Clint raises a hand to his temple. "What happened?"

"Nothing much; we secured the weapon and now we're on our way out," Natasha answers.

"Hm." Clint uses the banister to pull himself to his feet, then leans against the wall for a minute, taking a few deep breaths to steady himself. "Ok, let's take it slowly," he says at last. "I feel a little woozy." As they begin ascending the stairs again, Clint looks anxiously at Natasha. "So, you said you _didn't_ get hurt when the elevator fell, right?" he asks to reassure himself.

"Right," Natasha confirms, glancing sideways at him. He seems fine, back to normal, but he had also seemed fine right after the elevator dropped, so she refrains from asking if he's ok again or putting her arm around him to steady him. She's afraid that, if she shows any concern, he'll get defensive again. Instead, they continue up the stairs at a painstaking rate in silence.

Clint glances around them. "Hey, there's not another elevator, is there? I just – I feel a little light-headed, and I'm afraid if I don't take a break I'm gonna pass out again."

"I don't think so," Natasha replies. "Remember – those HYDRA guards had to take the stairs." _And I'm not even going to suggest the elevator shaft._

Clint shrugs. "I don't remember, but ok," he says. Then he smirks. "You don't happen to have a magic carpet handy, do you?"

Natasha manages a small smile. "Unfortunately not."

They reach the fiftieth level before Clint stops and sits down. "Halfway there," he pants. "I just need one more break, ok? And then I can make it to the top, I promise."

Natasha leans against the wall and watches him carefully. She's considering asking how his head feels when the door to the fifty-first floor opens and footfalls thunder down the staircase towards them. Natasha stands up straight. "Three men," she mutters. "Piece of cake, but let's try to play it off."

Clint nods, lifting his head to listen as the footsteps come closer.

Three armed HYDRA guards round the corner. Natasha recognizes one of them – she's had guard duty with him before. "Did you find them yet?" she asks.

"No," the HYDRA guard says, slowing down. The other two men pause on the steps to wait for him.

"Tell me when you do," Natasha continues, her heartrate picking up. "I have a small bone to pick." She tilts her head in Clint's direction.

"Will do," the guard agrees, glancing at Clint. His gaze narrows, and he whips out his gun. "Mind telling me why you have the assault rifle?"

Natasha shrugs casually. Then she throws herself at him without warning, shoving him down the stairs into his companions. His shot barely misses Clint, hitting the wall over his head. The three guards struggle to their feet as Natasha swoops down on them. She feels her training take over, muscle memory kicking in as she punches, blocks and kicks. It doesn't take long before all three men are in various stages of unconsciousness or death on the stairs.  
"Let's go," she says, making her way back up to Clint. She picks up the case holding the tesseract-powered rifle, and starts to walk past him, up the steps.

"Wait." Clint stands and reaches towards her, his hand covering hers on the case handle. Looking seriously into her eyes, he asks quietly, "You wanna tell me what went down on Floor One?"

Natasha freezes, starting to chew her lip nervously. "Nothing," she says finally. "I don't know what you mean. Come on, let's go. We have to focus on the mission."

Clint's grasp on her hand tightens, and he squints suspiciously at her. Finally he sighs. "I know you're keeping something from me, Natasha. And I'm going to find out what." Then he releases her hand. "But if you don't want to talk about it right this second, then ok. Come on." He turns and heads back up the staircase, and Natasha follows.

…

They reach the top of the staircase without incident. By this time, most of the guards have separated and are searching other floors, so the assassins are feeling fairly confident that they'll be able to take out what little of the enemy remains on the top floor and make their escape.

Clint pauses outside the door and pulls his collapsible bow out of his jacket. "Ready?" he asks his partner, fitting an arrow to the bowstring.

In response, she pulls out her pistols and kicks the door down.

Instantly, the dozen or so guards in view look up, shocked. Clint and Natasha take advantage of their temporary confusion by opening fire on them. Several men fall, but one manages to dispatch a message on his handheld radio while his allies begin shooting at the assassins. "Code Red, we're under attack!" he shouts into the device. "All personnel, report to Floor –" His words end in a wet gurgling noise as Clint sends an arrow through his stomach.

Meanwhile, Natasha shoots a few guards through the head. Then, red hair flying, she stuffs her guns inside their holsters and runs a few short steps to where an agent is aiming at Barton. She lands on his shoulders with a strong leap and delivers him to the ground with her famous thigh choke, tasing him with her Widow's Bite.

"There were some guards on the ninety-first floor," she calls to Clint. "It won't take them too long to get up here."

"'K, let's finish up in here!" he calls back as one of his arrows passes through the heads of two guards. Both S.H.I.E.L.D. agents look around, and find that there are only four guards remaining. All of them look petrified at their opponents' expertise, and one of them throws down his gun and lifts his hands in surrender. The others quickly follow suit.

Clint and Natasha's momentary relief quickly fades as footsteps pound on the stairs, heading for the door. Clint raises his eyebrows and says, "Let's go." Then, both of them race down the hallways towards the exit, the incoming HYDRA guards hot on their heels.

They burst out the door into the bright sunlight, the weapon case gripped tightly in Natasha's hand. Simultaneously, they head for a HYDRA vehicle with two men inside. Natasha throws open the driver's side door, then heads around to the passenger side as Clint takes out both men. Then, they're being chased towards the open road by a few stray bullets with only a couple cuts and bruises for their trouble.

Clint steers the black vehicle away from the base, pressing the gas pedal firmly to the floor so they're heading towards the main roads at top speed. Minutes pass in tense silence as the building fades into the distance. As the car nears the highway and traffic becomes thicker, Clint finally slows down, maneuvering the car into the busy interstate at a comfortable speed of seventy miles per hour.

For the first time in days, the partners feel that they can finally relax. Clint leans back against the driver's seat and heaves a sigh of relief. "Well, I'd say that mission was a success" is his comment.

Natasha leans back and props a foot on the dashboard. "Yeah," she agrees. "Fury'll be glad to get his hands on this."

"No kidding," Clint says. "And truthfully, after the infiltration part, it was pretty darn easy. Grab the loot, and fight our way out. Pretty straightforward, if you ask me."

"Mhm," Natasha mumbles noncommittally. "The stairs were overkill, though."

"Tell me about it," Clint says with a chuckle. Then he switches on cruise control, and turns seriously towards Natasha. "Nat… you know we're going to have to talk about this, right?"

Natasha glares out the window in silence. "'Bout what?" she asks after a second, hoping to keep up the façade.

"You know what," Clint replies, tilting his head in an attempt to glimpse her face. "Whatever happened after I blacked out in the elevator."

"Oh, speaking of that, how's your head?" Natasha finally gets the question out, partly to distract him and partly to determine whether he actually is back to normal. Plus, she wants to know. "You hit it pretty hard."

"Natasha," Clint says in an I-know-you're-trying-to-change-the-subject tone. "Answer the question."

Natasha sighs and risks a glimpse at him. "There's not much to tell," she admits. "You hit your head and I wasn't sure how bad it was. You were acting a little confused. When I asked you about it, you got a little… defensive. Then you fell down the stairs. That's it." She sighs again and pulls up her knee, hugging it.

When she glances back at Clint, he is looking askance at her. He remains silent for a moment, pondering her words, then says, "If that's all, then why were you acting…" His voice trails off as he searches for a word to describe her behavior.

"What?"

"Weird," Clint starts to say, then stops and shakes his head. "No, not weird. I mean, yeah, weird, but more like… nervous. When I touched you, you pulled away. When I came to after I fell down the stairs, you didn't seem very worried about me, didn't offer to help me. And when I asked what happened, you didn't give me a straight answer." He tilts his head again. "Not to mention the fact that you'll barely look me in the face right now."

Natasha presses the side of her face into her knee as she continues to stare out the window determinedly. "Really, Clint? Am I getting in trouble for things I _didn't_ do, now? I'm sorry if I was too focused on the mission." She hadn't meant to sound so harsh. She gives a passing driver a death glare.

Clint blinks in surprise at her response, realizing how upset she is. "Nat…" He reaches across the divide and gently touches her arm.

With a sharp intake of breath, she jerks away from his gentle touch as his fingers graze the place where he'd grasped her arm so tightly before. A light touch like that shouldn't have hurt so badly. It must be getting worse. She realizes she is staring wild-eyed at Clint, and turns her face quickly back to the window. "Sorry. Some HYDRA bum punched me during that last fight. It's still pretty sore."

Clint frowns at her, puzzled. "I don't remember seeing that happen," he says doubtfully.

"You were in the middle of shooting at someone," Natasha lies. "It's understandable."

"No, it's not," Clint says, still frowning. "I know I would have remembered…" His voice trails off, and his expression hardens with suspicion. He gazes intensely at the redhead, comprehension dawning on his features. "Nat… when you said I got 'a little defensive'… what exactly did you mean by that?"

Natasha's jaw tightens. "I don't know. You just kept on insisting that you were fine and that we should stay focused."

"But that's not all, is it?" Clint persists. "Natasha, what did I do?"

Natasha says nothing.

Clint's face tightens, and he turns his gaze back to the windshield. He doesn't speak for a moment, just maneuvers the car into the far right lane. Then, he pulls over on the side of the road, unbuckles his seatbelt, and turns towards Natasha.

"Natasha, let me see your arm."

"Clint, it's ok – you didn't do anything."

Clint closes his eyes. "Nat… I mean it. Show me."

Without looking at Clint, Natasha slowly unbuckles her seatbelt. Then she unzips her HYDRA jacket and shrugs it carefully off. Two angry purple bruises are blooming on each of her arms in the unmistakable shape of a handprint.

Clint stares at the marks for a moment without speaking. He exhales hard through his nose; once, twice. Then he turns away and covers his face with his hands, taking deep, shuddering breaths.

Natasha's heart aches to see him like this, and she regrets showing him. Her eyes start to burn. "It's ok, Clint," she says huskily, reaching across and putting her hand on his shoulder. "It really doesn't hurt that bad. It'll heal. I've been shot through the stomach before."

"Nat, this isn't _okay_ ," Clink says brokenly. "I _hurt_ you." His voice drips with self-loathing, and he slumps forward towards the steering wheel.

"Yes, it _is_ okay, Clint," Natasha says firmly, but now her nose is red too, and her eyes are starting to water. "Compared to everything the KGB put me through, this is next to nothing. It's not your fault." She squeezes his shoulder comfortingly.

"Not my fault?" Clint repeats incredulously. "In what way is this not my fault?" His voice catches slightly at the end, and he presses his hands even harder against his face.

He looks so small and ashamed that Natasha can't bear it. She climbs over the divider into his lap and wraps both arms around him, hiding her face in his collar and trying not to cry on him.

He responds by slipping his arms around her and pulling her even closer, his body shaking with suppressed sobs. He rests his face on her head and whispers, "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry" into her hair.

Instead of trying to convince him again that everything is okay, Natasha hugs him tightly and murmurs against his shoulder, "I love you, Clint." It's the first time she's ever said it out loud, and she says it so quietly that she'd be surprised if he actually heard her.

Several minutes pass in silence, and Clint's breathing gradually evens out. Finally, he pulls Natasha away, holding her at arm's length, and gives her a watery smile. "You're not… mad?" he blurts out stupidly.

She smirks. "That's an automatic no."

He breathes a sigh of relief. Then his brow furrows again. "But… you _are_ scared. I know I scared you, Tasha," he adds bitterly.

"Maybe a little," she admits seriously, looking into his eyes. "But that's just because I wasn't expecting it. And I'm not scared anymore."

He smiles again, and squeezes her arms comfortingly, being careful to avoid the bruises. Then his eyes move to the clock, and he sighs. "It's getting late. We should probably head back now, we have a long drive ahead of us."

Reluctantly, Natasha clambers back into her seat and snaps her seatbelt into place.

Clint looks earnestly at his partner for a minute. "Thanks," he says simply.

Natasha turns her head to look at him. In response, she reaches for his hand and gives it another squeeze, her face softening.

Clint sighs calmly. Then he releases her hand and takes hold of the wheel, carefully steering them out into traffic again.

As the car speeds up and the hum of the motor increases, Natasha is surprised by Clint's voice breaking through the stillness again.

"And by the way… I love you, too."


	2. Heatstroke

**Title: Heatstroke**

 **Description: Natasha gets heatstroke during a mission. Natasha!Whump.**

 **Rating: K**

 **Author's Note: I wrote Clint, w.a.o.n.n.y. wrote Natasha.**

* * *

"Uhh, Tasha? I'm stuck. You wanna give me a hand here?"

"You've got to be kidding me." Natasha's voice floats over the sounds of wildlife. She backtracks, grumbling about the incessant heat, and steps carefully closer to Clint. "Clinton Barton, I've already explained exactly how to identify quicksand. Three times. How did I hear the words 'I'm stuck' come out of your mouth just now?"

"I'm sorry, Tasha," Clint says shamefacedly, as his body sinks steadily into the ground. "I know I should've been watching where I was going, but I got distracted, see…" His voice trails off and he blushes, lowering his descending head.

Natasha glowers and mutters something about an actual five year old under her breath. But she firmly grasps Clint's arms and pulls steadily, and not too much time passes before a very muddy, very grateful Clint is standing on hard ground once more in front of Natasha, who is breathing hard.

"Thanks, Tasha," Clint says humbly. "I promise I won't do it again. And if I do, you have my permission to leave me in there."

Before Natasha can respond, a crackling noise fills the agents' ears and the slightly bored voice of Tony Stark, who is sitting comfortably in an air-conditioned quinjet a few miles away, comes over their ear comms. "Hey, not to be a spoilsport but can you two get on with it? If you don't focus, you lovebirds are going to waltz right past the target, hand-in-hand."

"Can it, Stark," Clint grumbles. Then he turns to Natasha. "Explain to me again why Fury thought it would be a good idea for him to supervise this mission."

"Because Tony is bored and rich and he thought it would be a good idea for us to have someone on call since we're out in the middle of nowhere in Botswana. I never realized how hot it gets over here." Natasha sidesteps another dangerously marshy-looking area.

"Bull," Clint mutters. "We've always done perfectly fine without backup."

"Not always, O Cocky One," Tony says smugly. "I have specific examples of situations where backup would have done you two a lot of good." Clint makes a suggestion as to where Tony can stick his examples.

"Come on, let's work together, boys," Natasha says in a patronizing tone. "Tony, what are we supposed to be looking for?"

"Well, the terrorists' hideout is about… a couple miles south of your location," Tony responds. "If you can breach the perimeter in the next thirty minutes or so, that would be a good time to snoop around a little, try to figure out when their game is. Fair warning though. I'm picking up a few heat signatures in the surrounding area, so be on your guard."

"Where are the other terrorists?" Natasha asks.

"They're in a small village a little ways away from here. But Maria Hill is over there with a team to intervene if they try anything violent."

"Right-o," Clint says. Then suddenly he halts, and looks down at the ground. "Tasha…" he says meekly. "I – I'm stuck again…"

"Well, thanks for your permission to leave you alone. It was nice knowing you," Natasha says without even glancing over her shoulder.

Clint freezes. He thinks she's joking, but he's not completely sure. "Ha, ha, you're funny, Nat," he says in an urgent tone. "I need help now," he adds as he sinks up to his knees.

"On second thought," says Natasha, turning around, "I don't really feel like looking for a new partner, so you're in luck, Hawkeye." She pulls him out for the fifth time and surveys him with a wrinkled nose. "Honestly, Clint, you're such a hot mess." She wipes her forehead. "Don't get too happy about it though. I think the rising temperature out here is just starting to mess with me."

"Yeah, the heat is brutal," Clint agrees. He grins and adds jokingly, "Tell me if you get too worn out and I can carry you."

"Oh, I'll let you know," she teases, smirking.

Tony's voice drones over the comms again. "Kinda feeling like a third wheel here, guys. You two can get a room just as soon as this mission is over, but for now, enough with the googly eyes."

Natasha sighs. "He's right, as much as I hate to say those words. Let's get a move on. And we weren't necessarily 'making googly eyes'. I was simply stating the facts."

"Whatever you say, Romanoff," Tony drawls as the two assassins pick up their pace.

Natasha suddenly freezes. "Um. Clint?"

He stops quickly, alerted by her tone. "What is it?" he asks, searching her face earnestly.

"Don't move." She looks around anxiously. "We're standing right in the middle of an old landmine."

Clint tenses, and his eyes scan the ground around them. "Great," he mutters. "Just what we needed."

"See that?" She points at a rusty old sign that's half-hidden in the marshy grasses. DANGER: EXPLOSIVES is printed across the front in large, bold letters.

"Nice of them to warn us," Clint comments dryly. "Ok, we've got to back out of here. Slowly. And Stark, work on finding a route that doesn't take us through Botswanan bomb graveyards."

"Roger that," Tony says.

Natasha takes a deep breath. "Clint, the other way I figured out that this is a landmine is that I accidentally stepped on one of the detonators. I wasn't focusing… it's really stupid, I know."

Clint's eyes widen, and his gaze slides down to her shoes. "Don't move," he breathes, his mind racing. "I'll get you out of this, I swear."

"No, you can't move either!" Natasha commands, her face flushed. "Right? Wait, no, you can move." She closes her eyes. "Hurry up and find him a way out, Stark."

Tony curses. "Hold on, the internet is spotty out here."

"Find _him_ a way out?" Clint repeats with a frown. "We can both get out of this, Nat. Just take it easy."

"Clint, stop lying to yourself!" Natasha says, growing agitated. "There's a point one percent chance I'll make it out and you know it."

"Don't talk like that, Natasha," Clint says forcefully. He reaches out and takes her hand. "We'll get you out of here. Right, Stark?" He is met with silence. Clint frowns and flicks his comm. "Stark?"

"Well… I'll do my best, Legolas," Tony says hesitantly. He sounds worried. Clint curses softly.

Natasha swallows hard, her palm sweaty in Clint's hand. "Clint, I'm not one for…" She sighs and brushes a hand across her forehead. "For sappy, emotional words. You know that. And… I want to tell you how much…" She hesitates. "I'm not sure how to say it…"

"Natasha, no," Clint says hoarsely. "We can figure this out."

"Clint, stop it, just…" Natasha takes a quick breath. "I just want to make sure that you know –"

"Cut the cheesy dialog!" Tony cuts in gleefully. "Believe it or not, this isn't just some old landmine. It's actually an old, re-vamped landmine that is electronically managed. I'm hacking into the system right now, which, by the way, is controlled by out oh-so-kind terrorist friends. I can't disable it without a direct override command, there's too many firewalls, but I can delay it. Hopefully long enough for you guys to get your butts outta there."

Clint lets out a huge sigh of relief and drops his head forward. "Any time would be great, Stark," he says in a strained tone. He gives Natasha's hand a squeeze.

"Uh-oh, you've got incoming," Tony says. "Some of the terrorists just realized you're here."

"Nice timing," Clint says under his breath. "Think you can fix the landmine problem before they get here?" he asks.

"Hold on, hold on," says Tony distractedly.

"I don't feel so good, Clint," Natasha mumbles.

He looks quickly at her. "Why, how do you feel?" he asks in concern.

"Just sort of… hot. And I keep forgetting words. What's wrong with me? I'm so dizzy…" She stumbles into Clint right as Tony yells, "Got it! You've got thirty seconds to get out of there! Go!"

"Quick quick quick," Clint says tightly. He throws his arm around her and half drags, half carries her away from the danger zone. He runs as fast as he can, but Natasha is leaning heavily on him, making it difficult. The seconds tick by in tense silence, till Tony yells, "Might want to hit the turf right around now!"

Clint shoves Natasha to the ground and hurls himself on top of her, just as the mine explodes about twenty yards behind them.

"I managed to isolate the explosion because I'm genius," Tony informs them. "Which means that none of the other bombs within a three-foot radius of the first one will detonate."

Natasha coughs and stirs a little underneath Clint.

Clint rolls off of her and flips her onto her back. "Natasha? You okay?" he asks anxiously, pushing her hair away from her face.

"Yeah," Natasha replies hoarsely. She coughs again. "What happened? Where…" She trails off, trying to sit up.

Clint pushes Natasha gently back to the ground. "Take it slowly, Nat," he says. He's worried about how weak she seems and knows she is likely to push herself. "Describe your symptoms."

"Uh…" Natasha frowns. "I'm hot. And…" She pauses, staring off into space. "Why am I hot? Are you hot?"

Clint presses his lips together, disturbed at how disoriented she sounds. He touches the back of his hand to her head and finds that she is burning up. She looks flushed, but she doesn't feel sweaty, she feels dry. Alarm bells start ringing in Clint's head. "Stark," he says quietly, "I think it's heatstroke."

"Heatstroke nothing," Natasha says scornfully, but her words are slurring together. "It's just hot out. We have to go stop… the bad guys." She stands up, pushing Clint's hands away. "Let's – woah. I feel…" She stops suddenly and gets sick on the ground.

"Yeah, it's heatstroke," Tony confirms worriedly. "Jarvis is saying that Natasha's body temperature is 103 degrees Fahrenheit and climbing, and her heart is working way too hard to try to cool herself down."

"Ugggh." Natasha moans, swaying.

Clint grabs her elbows, steadying her. "We've been out here for the same amount of time. Why am I not affected?" he asks.

"I dunno. Because you have short sleeves?" Tony suggests. Clint starts rolling Natasha's sleeves up.

"Stop, Clint," Natasha mumbles, feebly trying to push him away. "We have less than thirty minutes to get those… those… things."

"Yeah, you have exactly twenty-three minutes and forty-eight seconds left to check out that hideout, Bird Boy," Tony says. "If you want to come bring Romanoff back to the quinjet, you'll probably still have maybe twelve or so minutes of snoop time."

"Roger that," Clint says. "Hey. Tasha?" He grips the sides of her face, trying to get through to her. "I'm gonna take you back to the quinjet with Tony, okay?"

"No!" Natasha says in agitation, clutching at him. "I'm gonna go with you. Those things might kill you. Or you might fall into one of those… sticky… puddles." She looks up at him seriously, concern written all over her features, begging him with her big green eyes.

Clint sighs and drags his gaze away from her face. He's always had trouble saying No to Natasha when she looks at him like that, and her childish concern and cute phrasing aren't helping. "Nat, please," he begins, but Tony cuts in.

"Um, Barton? Remember those hostiles I mentioned earlier?"

Clint stiffens and lets go of Natasha, turning around. "Yes. Why?"

"Well, apparently, they're like, right on top of you right now."

"Well thanks for telling me in advance," Clint says sarcastically, yanking an arrow from his quiver and fitting it to the bowstring. A flicker of movement catches his eye from a nearby clump of trees, and Clint whirls and sends his arrow right through the head of one of the terrorists.

"One down, one to go," Tony commentates.

"Do you wanna tell me where the other guy is, Stark?" Clint says, his eyes systematically scanning the landscape.

"Wait, hold on," Tony says suddenly. "Natasha's vitals are going haywire."

Clint looks quickly at his partner, who's sitting on the ground again with a wide-eyed expression on her face, breathing rapidly.

"Her temperature's rising," Tony continues. "Heartrate rising, respiration decreasing, blood pressure stabilizing around… 160 over 90. Oh, and that guy you were looking for? He's, like, right behind you."

Clint jumps, realizing he's paying more attention to Natasha than his surroundings. He turns and decks the man with an arrow, then drops to his knees next to Natasha. "Are you okay, Natasha?" he asks gently.

Natasha moans and closes her eyes. "I wanna go home," she mumbles. "I'm hot." Suddenly, her eyes roll open and her body starts to jerk violently.

"She's having a seizure!" Tony bellows. "Get her to the quinjet, stat! I'm prepping the med pod."

Clint's eyes grow huge as he stares at his partner, feeling panicked. Then he scoops her up and hurries back towards the quinjet, his heart throbbing wildly.

The seizure passes before Clint reaches the quinjet. Natasha looks terrible – her skin is flushed and dehydrated and she's confused and agitated. "I'm hot," she groans, tugging vainly at him. "I want a drink, cause I'm really thirsty. Where are we? Are we gonna get a drink soon?"

Clint sets his jaw grimly, not trusting himself to speak. But then he realizes that her condition could get worse if she gets upset. So he clears his throat and tries to speak calmingly. "Yeah, we'll get a drink in a second, Baby Doll," he says hurriedly, trying to sound soothing even though he's preoccupied. "Just breathe, okay? We're almost there."

"Hey, did either of you pack a change of clothes?" Tony asks as Clint nears the quinjet. "Jarvis says she needs something lighter on to help her cool off and I didn't bring anything."

"Um… I think she has spare clothes in her duffel bag," Clint says distractedly. His eyes narrow as they sweep the landscape. "Hey, I can't see you. Is cloaking on?" His question is answered when the quinjet shimmers into focus a little way ahead of them. "Great. Open the hatch. Oh, and Tony?" He glances down at Natasha again. "Get a water ready."

A minute later, Clint stumbles in through the back hatch, clutching Natasha protectively. "Jarvis, crank up the AC," he commands, heading towards the med pod that Tony has set up. Tony appears a moment later, looking worried. He drops Natasha's duffel bag and tosses Clint a water bottle.

"She gonna be okay?" he asks anxiously, laying his palm on her forehead.

"Dunno," Clint mutters, uncapping the bottle. "Hey Tasha? Want some water?"

Natasha reaches for the water bottle with shaking hands and begins to take eager gulps of the clear liquid. Suddenly she stops, a funny look coming over her face. "I'm gonna throw up."

"Not in here! I just cleaned it up!" Tony yelps. "Take her to the bathroom, for goodness' sake!"

Clint picks her up again and runs to the bathroom. He sets her down in front of the toilet and throws the lid open just in time. He stands there, patting her shoulder comfortingly as she vomits, until Tony loudly calls him from the med pod. Clint tears himself away from Natasha's side and returns to Tony. "What is it?" he asks the billionaire.

"Look, Barton, you've got to get a move on," Tony says. "The reason you have to be in and out within thirty minutes – actually, twenty now – is because that's when the terrorists are gonna be returning to their hideout. And maybe, you'd have had a fighting chance before, but now, with Romanoff down, it isn't worth the risk."

"Can I have five more minutes?" Clint pleads.

Tony winces apologetically. "I'm really sorry, Barton. But if we don't have anything on these guys by tonight, we're gonna have a furious Fury on our hands."

Clint nods in resignation. "Okay. Thirty seconds," he says. Without waiting for Tony's agreement, he kneels down and rummages through Natasha's' bag till he finds a pair of denim shorts and a loose top. He also comes across a hair tie, and he takes that to the bathroom as well.

Natasha is bending over the toilet with her eyes closed when Clint returns. After he drops her clothes on the floor, she starts retching again. He comes up behind her and pulls her damp hair off her face and neck, hastily dragging it into a messy ponytail to keep it out of her way. "Hang in there, Nat," he says. "And change your clothes, okay?" He squeezes her shoulder reassuringly, then slips out of the bathroom and shuts the door. "Keep an eye on her, Tony. And you, too, Jarvis," Clint says. "And whatever you do, don't let her walk on her own. When she gets done changing, help her back to the med pod."

"Sure thing, Hawk Boy," Tony agrees.

Clint grabs Natasha's water bottle and takes a quick swig of it. "Okay, I'm off," he says, putting the bottle away. "Let me know if there are any changes." And he hastens out the door.

"Sir, would you like me to turn the cloaking mechanism back on?" Jarvis asks after Clint leaves.

"Yeah, that would probably be best," Tony replies. "And while you're at it, can you look up some information on how to treat heatstroke?"

"I already have," Jarvis says. "There is not much that can be done other that bringing down the victim's body temperature. I recommend fans, ice packs, and a cool, non-alcoholic drink. Oh, and Mr. Stark?"

"Yeah, what is it, Jarvis?" Tony says distractedly, preparing the ice packs and a tall glass of water.

"You might want to check on Miss Romanoff. Her temperature is now at 106 degrees Fahrenheit and she has just lost consciousness in the bathroom after displaying some signs of delirium."

"Dang it," Tony mutters, setting everything down and rushing to the bathroom. As he's carrying Natasha to the med pod, Jarvis' voice floats over the speakers once more.

"Sir, Mr. Barton is trying to contact you."

Tony reaches to turn on his comm and realizes that he left it by the mainframe. "I can't be everywhere at once! Jarvis, you talk to Clint until I can get over there."

"Yes, Sir."

Tony grabs the water and sets it on a table next to the bed, settles some ice packs around Natasha, then races back to the controls and collapses into the seat, putting his comm back in. "Guess who's back? Everybody's favorite multitasker."

As Clint hurries away from the quinjet, his mind is still on Natasha. He hates that he can't be with her while she's indisposed, but he tells himself that he'll be able to see her again soon.

"Hey Stark?" Clint says. He receives no reply. Frowning, he taps at his ear comm. "Stark? You there?"

In response, an accented voice comes over the connection. "I'm sorry, Mr. Barton, but Mr. Stark is currently occupied with caring for Miss Romanoff. Can I be of assistance?"

"How is she, Jarvis?" Clint asks the AI.

"Miss Romanoff is much the same, Sir. She lost consciousness in the bathroom, and Mr. Stark has carried her to the medical pod. She is dressed more comfortably now, and Mr. Stark is preparing a cold drink and ice packs, so I'm hopeful that her condition will improve." There is a slight rustling sound, and Jarvis adds, "Mr. Stark is returning, Sir."

Then Tony's obnoxious voice comes back over the line. "Guess who's back? Everybody's favorite multitasker.

"She blacked out?" Clint returns anxiously.

"Calm down, Cupid, she'll be fine once she cools off a little. Have you found the base yet?"

"No, but you said it's a few miles south of here, right?"

"Right."

"Okay, so I'm skipping the subtle approach. I'm just gonna take the most direct route to the location, cause we're running out of time."

"Well, that's not the most ideal, most sensible plan, but I'll go with it. Just make sure you don't get yourself captured or wander into more quicksand because I really don't want to come after you. By the way, the terrorists that are down at that little village have just been met with SHIELD opposition and it looks like they're legging it out of there pretty quickly. Maria took out about half of them, though, so there's only five or six on their way back."

"Roger that," Clint says. "I'll try to find the hideout before they get back."

About fifteen minutes later, Clint slows down on the empty plain, scanning his eyes over the horizon. "It should be here, right?"

"Yeah."

Clint looks around, but the only things that break the flat landscape are marshy ponds and a few clumps of trees. He heads for the nearest grove of trees and walks slowly through it, kicking at the soggy carpet of brush and fallen leaves.

Then he steps on a part of the ground that feels different from the rest. Clint frowns and squats down. He tears away the dead foliage until he uncovers a flat wooden square: a trapdoor.

"I found it," he tells Stark, running his fingers along the edges. "You picking up any heat signatures around here?"

"Nope. You're on your own."

Clint pushes on the door and feels it give way a little. _Aha. A trapdoor on springs._ He stands up and stomps on the door, then jumps back as it springs open. Clint peers through the opening, and sees a makeshift ladder leading down into a dark hole.

"I'm in." Clint whips a flashlight off his belt and clicks it on. Then, slowly, he descends into the darkness. When he reaches the ground, he turns and sweeps his flashlight around the small opening. The square shaft of light from the open trapdoor falls on a roughly hewn wooden table, at which sit a few chairs. This is the only furniture in the room. "It's a very primitive hideout."

The beam from Clint's flashlight lands on a pile of knapsacks that are leaning against the wall. He approaches them and squats down, opening one of them. At the top of the sack is a manila folder. Clint takes it out and shines his flashlight at the front of it. His eyes widen as he sees the familiar insignia that decorates the cover.

"You're not going to believe this, Stark."

"What is it?"

"These aren't just any old terrorists," Clint says, standing up. "They're ex-Shield agents."

Tony can't believe his ears. "Woah. Hold up. What do you mean, ex-Shield agents? Are we talking double agents? Moles? Soldiers drummed out for cowardice or whatever?"

"Excuse me, Mr. Stark," Jarvis interrupts politely. "I regret to inform you that Miss Romanoff has left the premises.

Tony jumps out of his seat. "What? How did she get out? Where is she?"

"Miss Romanoff regained consciousness approximately eleven minutes ago. She was asking for Mr. Barton so I told her where he was and what he was doing. She threatened me, so I was not allowed to tell you that she had gone until exactly ten minutes after she left."

"Threatened you?" Tony frowns, ignoring Clint's anxious questions. "With what?"

There is an awkward moment of silence from Jarvis, followed by, "I'd rather not say, Sir."

"I'm sure you wouldn't. Where is she now?"

"I'm sorry, Sir, but I'm not sure. Miss Romanoff removed her earpiece before leaving."

"Did she at least take some weapons?" Tony asks, frantically trying to find a SHIELD security camera in the area so he doesn't have to hack into NASA's satellite feed.

"She did, Sir. She took two pistols and some of her Widow's Bites."

"Bad news, Barton," Tony say, finally putting a stop to Clint's questioning. "You've got incoming backup."

"Wait – you mean Natasha's gone?" Clint demands, his pulse speeding up.

"That's what I mean. She blackmailed a computer, grabbed a couple weapons and took off after you ten minutes ago. I'm trying to find her now and you are _not_ allowed to leave until you've finished gathering intel."

"I've found enough," Clint says grimly, starting for the ladder. "How long ago –"

" _No._ Do you have any idea how much Fury will kill us if you don't finish, Birdbrain? Stay there and get the job done. I'll handle your girlfriend."

"As far as I'm concerned, the job's done," Clint says firmly. "Those hostiles are on their way back. I've got to find her before they do."

"No, you're leaving something important behind in that base: your brains. Ex-Shield agents? Fury will go nuts if you don't make a thorough search. I found Natasha."

"Where?" Clint demands, ignoring the first part of Tony's message.

"Not telling. Finish up. She's fine, though, hasn't found any quicksand or landmines. Looks kinda dazed though, so hurry up. Also, she looks really hot. From a temperature standpoint, obviously, I'm not – oh whatever, just finish up."

"Stark! Tell me!" Clint yelps. "I'm already out of the hideout, and I'm not going back in!"

"Barton, what are you thinking? You don't want to be given files duty again! And I absolutely refuse to tell you where she is until you finish up in there! Oh, great – she's starting to throw up again. Dang it, Barton, hurry up!"

Clint curses, starting to sweat, and clambers back down into the hole. He skims his flashlight over the earthen walls and floor, barely seeing them as his mind races. He grabs one of the knapsacks and slings it over his shoulder. "It's completely empty except for some furniture and a bunch of bags. I'm bringing one of the bags. Now tell me where she is, sucker, or I'll fix you so you'll have to use crutches for the rest of your life!"

"Look north. The ground's pretty flat – you should be able to see her, your being Hawkeye and all. Oh, snap, she just passed out." There is a short pause, then Tony freaks out over the comms. "The terrorists are on their way back and they're headed southeast to your location! If you don't hurry, Barton, I swear they might reach her before you do. I'm bringing the jet around. You need backup."

Adrenaline tears through Clint and he gasps involuntarily, sick with dread. Then he starts running east, as fast as he can.

It's not long before he sees a form lying crumpled on the ground ahead of him. The only way he knows it's Natasha is because of her bright red hair. Then he sees a small cluster of men running towards her from the other direction and he somehow finds the strength to run even faster. When the terrorists see him, they pause, seeming confused, and lift their rifles warningly. He has to stop them before they see Natasha. Without breaking his stride, he nocks an arrow and shoots one of them dead.

The he skids to the ground next to Natasha, as the remaining enemies shoot towards him. It flashes through his mind that he's putting Natasha at risk of being shot by lying nearby, so he jumps up and runs a safe distance away from her, shooting down another terrorist as he goes.

Suddenly, the remaining mercenaries are shot down by an unseen source, and the quinjet shimmers into existence as it settles onto the ground.

"All aboard the Kickbutt Express," says Tony. "Let's get the heck out of here."

Clint scoops up Natasha and boards the plane, carrying her into the console as the quinjet lifts off. He brings her into the med pod and lays her down on the bed.

"Well, that was an adventure," Tony says, entering. "Drink?" he offers Clint a shot. "I wanna look over those files you snagged. How's she doing?"

"I don't know," Clint mumbles, absently passing Tony the knapsack and ignoring the drink. He smooths back a strand of hair that has come loose from her ponytail.

"Natasha? Natasha, can you hear me?"

Natasha moans and opens her eyes a little. "You came back," she murmurs, closing them again. Her hand finds his and clutches it weakly.

Relief floods through Clint. "Yeah, I'm here," he says softly, sitting down on the bed.

"Um, do you want me to leave you alone?" Tony asks.

"Natasha, how are you feeling?" Clint asks.

"Thought you were gonna die," Natasha says, then smirks a little and peeks an eye open. "Thought I was gonna have to pull you out of that quicksand again."

Clint chuckles and squeezes her hand. "Do you want a drink?" he asks, reaching for her glass of water.

Natasha nods and takes the drink from him, and he waits while she sips the cold water.

"Do you feel like talking?" Clint asks, not wanting to overtire her.

"Not very much," she says, setting the cup down.

"Is it okay if I talk to you?" he asks, and she nods and closes her eyes.

Clint takes a deep breath. "I wanted to talk to you about… what happened at the landmines."

She opens her eyes and looks at him, but he can't read her expression.

"Do you remember that?" Clint asks uncertainly.

A frown creases her brow. "Maybe. Did you push me onto the ground?"

"Yes," Clint says, wondering how clear the memory actually is. She had seemed very confused at the time. Natasha nods and closes her eyes again.

Clint pauses, trying to collect his thoughts. "I just – I thought I was going to lose you, Tasha," he says quietly. The memory comes flooding back, clearer than ever, and he closes his eyes for a moment, calming himself. He doesn't want to upset Natasha. "And, I wanted to tell you that next time… " His voice trails off. Next time what? He's not sure what he wants to say. He just knows that it rattled him to see how ready she was to wait alone, standing on a detonator, making sure he got to safety. How prepared she was to die just as long as she knew he would live. He swallows hard and his eyes start to sting.

"That was not okay, Tasha," he whispers. "I couldn't have lived with myself if you'd – if anything had –" He breaks off suddenly and gives a shuddering sigh, passing his hand over his face.

Natasha's eyes are still closed, but her forehead is wrinkled as she ponders his words. It's obvious that she's listening closely, but just how much she is able to grasp, Clint doesn't know. She seems better, but still not entirely lucid. She may not even remember this conversation later, Clint thinks. Maybe it's better this way.

"And I want you to know… I was not going to leave you alone back there," Clint goes on. "I would have stayed with you until the bomb went off if we hadn't been able to find a way out. So please, don't ever ask me to leave you and save myself again, because that's never going to happen. You're my best friend, and I'd follow you anywhere, even to death."

Clint finishes and whisks a few tears from his eyes. He watches Natasha, wondering if she's even awake anymore. His question is answered when she sits up unexpectedly and throws her arms around his neck. Clint exhales and hugs her back, finally relaxing. Natasha isn't dead, isn't captured, isn't stuck standing in a landmine with her foot on the detonator. She is right here, right now, and he'd fight to the death to make sure she stayed that way.

"Silly Clint," Natasha mumbles against his neck. "I'm not going to die. Who would look after you? And pull you out of mud puddles?"

Clint closes his eyes and squeezes her even tighter. Then, he realizes that hugging her is only going to make her warmer. So he gently pulls away and lays her back down, pressing the back of his hand against her flushed cheek. She looks up at him and smiles weakly.

"Sleep now," Clint says firmly. He starts to rise and join Tony in the cockpit, but Natasha grabs his wrist, halting him.

"Stay with me?" She pleads, beseeching him with those beautiful, deep green eyes.

Clint's face softens and he sits back down and takes her hand. "I'll never say no to that request."

Natasha sighs contentedly and closes her eyes.

It doesn't take very long for her to fall asleep, but when she does, Clint doesn't go back to the cockpit. Instead, he stays by her side, holding her hand the whole way home.


End file.
